


Picking Pockets and (Other) Pick Up Lines

by orphan_account



Series: Stucky AUs [12]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Drunk Steve Rogers, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, amputee!Bucky, bucky's a grump, elevator problems, ikea coffee tables, so is steve tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:08:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Bucky loses his jacket, his dignity, his sleep, and his mind all in one week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking Pockets and (Other) Pick Up Lines

**Author's Note:**

> ??? good luck  & thank you

“It’s so fucking hot in here.” Bucky hisses to Nat. “And the fluorescent lights are not helping anything.”

 

Nat laughs and it rings way too loud in Bucky’s ear.

 

“See, this is why you shouldn’t challenge her to a drinking contest. She’s Russian, her blood is like, 80% alcohol.” Clint groans, trailing behind them through the aisles.

 

Bucky knows it’s his fault. But it’s also Nat’s fault and Clint’s fault. Because if Nat hadn't made that snide comment (“Steady there, Barnes. We don't want you getting too drunk too soon”) and if Clint hadn’t egged on his competitive side (“Hey, Barnes, bet you can’t do a backflip on your coffee table”), Bucky wouldn’t have consumed half a bottle of vodka on an empty stomach and broken his fucking table.

 

But they did, and Bucky did, and now he’s one table down and trying to navigate his way through the labyrinth of IKEA with one of the worst hangovers he’s ever had the _pleasure_ of experiencing.

 

“I’m taking off my fucking jacket.” Bucky groans, following Nat around another corner. They’re met with an identical isle and Bucky just wants to go back to sleep.

 

“Nat, do you even know where the tables are?” Clint dares to say as they wind through aisle after aisle. Bucky’s jacket sits heavily in his arm and he doesn’t even know why he brought it with him. It’s not a cold day, they’re inside, and he always overheats when he is hungover.

 

“Nope.” Nat admits and Bucky has to do a double take because Nat’s never wrong. It just doesn’t happen. “But _you_ sure as hell don’t so I figure I might as well be the one leading.”

 

“You’ve got a point.” Clint agrees, falling into step with Bucky. “She’s got a point.”

  
  


“Hey, look at this!” Clint grins, grabbing an empty picture frame from a shelf. It’s wooden and hollow, with no glass screen. Clint holds it up to his face with one hand.

 

“Take a photo.” He says, and Bucky rolls his eyes but reaches into his pocket anyway.

 

“You need to hold my jacket, I don’t have enough hands.” He says to Clint, passing over his jacket. Clint takes it and pulls a face while Bucky takes the picture.

 

“Awesome!” He grins when Bucky shows it to him.

 

“Come on, boys.” Nat calls to them, a playful smile betraying the image of her foot tapping impatiently on the cold linoleum floor. “I think we’re close.”

 

Bucky pockets his phone and holds out his arm to Clint.

 

“Naw, man. It’s warm, let me hold it for a bit.” Clint says, rubbing his face in Bucky’s jacket.

 

“Creep.” Bucky snorts, but lets him carry it.

  
  


It’s anticlimactic, really, when they find the tables. They pick one out, an almost-identical replica of the one he broke, and organise delivery for some time later in the week.

 

“That was so boring.” Clint groans as they weave their way back to the exit. Nat’s impeccable sense of direction comes into play this time, and she seems to know where she’s taking them. “Why did I have to come?”

 

“Because your stupid dare is what caused Bucky to break the damn thing.” Nat sighs, rolling her eyes fondly.

 

“It’s not my dare’s fault Bucky’s a competitive asshole.” Clint mutters, dramatically throwing his hands in the air. His painfully empty hands.

 

“Where’s my jacket?” Bucky asks, his eyes widening in horror. Clint blinks at him, then slowly looks at his hands.

 

“Aw, hell.” He groans, spinning around as if that would make it magically appear.

 

“Nat!” Bucky whines, because hangovers turn him into a child. “Clint lost my jacket.”

 

“Why do I always end up in these situations.” She sighs to herself, her eyes flicking between Bucky and Clint.

 

“You’re the smart one,” Bucky says. “You should’ve noticed earlier.”

 

“You know what?” Nat says with a creepy little smirk. “You can find it on your own.”

 

“No no no no no,” Bucky begs. “It’s my jacket, Nat! It’s got- okay, there’s nothing much in the pockets, but still. It’s my favourite jacket, Nat. You have to find help me.”

 

She studies them both for a moment more before shaking her head at them.

 

“We’ll get lost if we go back, and I am not spending my entire Sunday morning looking for that ratty thing.”

 

“The great Natasha Romanov, defeated by an American department store.” Clint mutters to Bucky under his breath. There’s no way Nat missed that, but she must be feeling charitable because Bucky’s the only one who elbows him.

 

“Dick.” He growls, knowing his voice lacks true venom. “You owe me a jacket.”

  
  


Nat spots it first, lying on a shelf close to one of the vases Clint picked up on the way through the store the first time.

 

“Hey, Barnes.” She says, spinning on her heel. Bucky stops just in time to avoid crashing into her. “That old rag over there look familiar?” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder and Bucky follows it with his eyes.

 

“My poor baby!” He croons, scooping it up and holding it close to his chest. “Nat, you’re literally an angel.”

 

Clint snorts, and this time it’s Nat who elbows him.

  
  


Bucky carries his jacket home, because it’s still too warm to comfortably wear it. As long as Clint’s not doing the carrying, it’s not in real danger, anyway. It’s not until he reaches into the jacket pocket that he realises he’s made a mistake.

 

At first he thinks someone’s taken his keys, or they fell out of the pocket, but then he finds the phone. And iPod. And other set of keys.

 

It’s not his jacket.

 

It’s roughed up, same as his, but there’s no rip in the right hand pocket from Bucky’s nervous habit, and the left sleeve is a little too scuffed and used compared to Bucky’s.

 

He groans and bangs his head against the door.

 

Luckily for Bucky, he has a nice neighbour. He’s an elderly guy, used to serve, too. His wife makes Bucky dinner sometimes, and Bucky returns the favour with running some errands for them. In short, they have a spare key for Bucky’s flat.

 

Timothy opens the door when Bucky knocks, beaming when he sees who it is.

 

“Sarge!” He grins, slapping Bucky on the shoulder before waving him in. “What can I do for you today, son?”

 

“Locked myself out.” Bucky says with a self-deprecating shrug. Timothy laughs, not unkindly, and leads Bucky to the kitchen. Louise, his wife, looks up when Bucky walks in and makes her way over to him with an elegance she still manages to keep, even in her late eighties.

 

“James, dear. How lovely to see you.” She says with a warm smile, kissing him on the cheek. “How have you been?”

 

“Good, thank you, ma’am. Except I’ve locked myself out of my house, lost my keys.” Bucky explains again, hoping he’s not too obviously hungover. He’s sure the Dugan’s have had their fair share of hangovers, but he still doesn’t want to disappoint.

 

“Well, that’s what we’re for!” Louise exclaims, clapping her hands together, before sifting through the bowl of trinkets she keeps on the window ledge. She produces Bucky’s spare key and holds it out for him. “I hope you find your keys soon, my dear.”

  
  


Once Bucky’s inside and comfortable with more coffee than he needs (but just enough to satisfy him) he checks the phone in the jacket pocket. It isn’t even locked, and seriously, who doesn’t lock their phone? It’s a bonus for Bucky, though, and he goes straight to the messages.

 

Because Bucky is a literal angel he manages to reply to the top contact without reading any of their conversation. The contact is called “Steve” with the muscle emoji three times after it. Bucky clicks it.

 

He’s not sure what to say, so after a minute of deliberation he just sends off:

 

 **_Me:_ ** _Hey, I found this phone. How should I get it back to its owner?_

 

While he’s waiting for a reply, Bucky changes the phone background and lock screen to really unattractive selfies. He figures if he’s got the phone he might as well do something, and this is harmless enough.

 

Not-Bucky’s-Phone buzzes in his hand, a reply from Steve lighting up the screen.

 

 **_Steve:_ ** _I don’t know, is there any personal info on it??_

 

It sounds like permission to go through the phone, but Bucky still doesn’t feel too comfortable. If it wasn’t password protected, it’s probably already logged into Facebook. Bucky could easily find out more about the phone owner, but it doesn’t sit right with him.

 

 **_Me:_ ** _I don’t know if I want to go through the phone without knowing who it belongs to. Can’t you just help me? Or should I text Peggy?_

 

Peggy’s the next contact under the recent list, and maybe more helpful than this Steve.

 

 **_Steve:_ ** _Noooo dont text pegs, i’ll help. Want me to come over?_

 

The reply is almost immediate and as soon as Bucky reads it he realises what Steve means. He calls the number straight away.

 

“Hey, Sam. Give me ten. Unless you want me to pick up pizza? Then I’ll be twenty.” Steve says when he answers.

 

“I’m not Sam,” Bucky says. “I found his phone and need to get it back to him.”

 

Steve’s silent for a beat, processing the information.

 

“Man, now I just sound like an idiot.” He groans, and Bucky decides he likes this guy. “Where did you find his phone?”

 

“IKEA. I took his jacket instead of mine, phone was in the pocket. Along with iPod and keys.”

 

“Wallet?” Steve asks. Bucky quickly pats down the pockets with his hand, phone cradled between his head and shoulder.

 

“Nah, just this shit. How do I return it?”

 

Steve’s quiet for beat too long and Bucky pulls his phone back to make sure he didn’t accidently hang up.

 

“You could be a murderer. Or stalker.” Steve says, finally. “I can’t give you Sam’s address, especially if you already have his keys.”

 

Bucky groans, but he can’t really complain because although Steve may be getting in the way of a perfectly simple jacket-swap but Bucky has no idea who this Sam guy is, he could be a fifteen year old kid or something.

 

“So what do you propose?” Bucky asks.

 

“Meet me instead.” Steve answers immediately, as if the solution was sitting on his tongue waiting for a prompt.

 

“And what if I am a murderer?” Bucky shoots back.

 

“I can handle myself.” Steve practically growls, and Bucky remembers the muscle emojis by his contact.  

 

“Okay. So what’s the plan?”

 

And that’s how Bucky agrees to meet a prickly stranger in Prospect park at 3pm on a Sunday.

  
  


**_Me:_ ** _I’m outside the library,_ Bucky sends when he arrives at 3 minutes to 3. He’s got Sam’s jacket hooked over his arm and a cap pulled low, serving a double purpose in pulling back his hair and keeping the sun off his face.

 

 **_Unknown Number:_ ** _Who’s this?_ Comes the instant reply. Right. He has Steve’s number from Sam’s phone, but Steve doesn’t have his number.

 

 **_Me:_ ** _Bucky. The serial killer with ur friend’s top._

 

 **_Unknown Number:_ ** _Your name is Bucky?? Wow, now I’m extra glad I didn’t give you his address._

 

 **_Me:_ ** _Okay Mr Asshole, just hurry up and get the damn thing back._

 

 **_Unknown Number:_ ** _1 min away._

 

Bucky scowls at his phone before shoving it into his jeans pocket and surveying the area. It’s a nice day so there are people sitting around in groups, chatting and studying. Only a couple of people are walking around- a pair of teenage girls and a scrawny kid- but Bucky can’t see this Muscle-Man Angry Steve.

 

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

 

“I’m sitting on the steps,” Bucky says when he picks up. “Where are you?”

 

“You that broody guy hiding his face under a cap? In, like, a very serial-killer way?” Steve asks.

 

“Yes- No. Piss off. I’m the only one on the steps.”

 

“Very serial-killer looking. I really hope you don’t shoot me. Broad daylight, public place, though. It wouldn’t be a smart move. You’re better off hiring a sniper to get me from a couple of blocks away," Steve laughs down the line. Bucky’s insides turn to ice, his left arm burning a hole in his side as if it was still attached to him.

 

“Fuck you. _Fuck_ you.” Bucky snaps, chucking the damn jacket on the ground and standing up. He still can’t see this Steve guy, but that’s a good thing now. He needs to get out of here, fast. “I didn’t enlist to be called a fucking murderer. I get that the war is a fucking mess but I don’t owe anyone an explanation, least of all _you_.”

 

“Oh my God. Bucky, I’m-”

 

“Shut _up_. I hope you’re damn close because your friend’s jacket is lying on the ground. Leave me alone, you asshole.”

 

“Bucky!” Steve tries again, and Bucky can hear his voice ringing out after he hangs up. He must be close, because it’s definitely not coming through the phone in Bucky’s sweaty hand.

 

He ignores it and picks up his pace.

  
  


It’s the longest fifteen minutes of his life, but also the shortest amount of time Bucky has ever taken to get home from Prospect Park by foot. He’s still got the Dugans’ key so he doesn’t need to bother them, he just lets himself in and collapses against the closed front door, not bothering to make it to the couch.

 

Because yeah, Bucky enlisted to help his country and do the right thing. And he really did feel like it was the right thing to do, too. He’s helped children and defused bombs, he’s lead rescue ops and helped fellow soldiers return to their families.

 

Steve’s still right though.

 

He’s a murderer.

 

He’s killed people for no reason other than the orders he’s been given, he's killed men younger than himself, really just kids. He may have saved some people, but he’s let just as many slip through his fingers, if not more. He’s not a goddamn hero, he’s not even a good person.

 

He stays on the floor as the sun sets, and is still there as dawn breaks.

 

* * *

  


Bucky must have fallen asleep at some point, because he wakes with a start to three heavy knocks at his door. The door which Bucky is leaning on. He groans and stands up, rubbing the kink in his neck.

 

“Yo, Barnes, I got you coffee.” Clint calls, and it must be afternoon because Clint’s rarely this energetic before midday.

 

“What time is it?” Bucky asks, swinging the door open with a yawn.

 

“Bro. You look like shit,” Clint says, brushing past Bucky with a one-eyed dog on his heels. Bucky doesn’t know how to process it, so just blinks. “But man, have I been there before. It’s 4. PM. Monday.”

 

“What’s with the dog?” Bucky asks, accepting Clint’s answer with the coffee. Clint shrugs.

 

“Found him I guess? He’s cool. Not mine though. Just follows me.” The dog in question licks the hand Clint has hanging at his side and sits down.

 

“He’s kinda cute.” Bucky admits, leading them to the couch. There are shirts thrown across it, and a shoe poking out from between the cushions, but Clint either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Either way, Bucky’s not fussed. They both know Clint gets just as bad.

 

“Yeah.” Clint agrees, taking the seat next to Bucky. “Let’s watch Planet Earth and order a pizza.”

  
  


Half an hour later and they’re tucked into the couch with two pizzas between them and David Attenborough in the background. It’s pretty great, and Bucky can push aside what happened yesterday if he doesn’t think too hard.

“Can I give your dog some pizza?” Bucky asks, pulling off a slice of pepperoni. The dog’s ears perk up and his tail thumps against the ground. Clint shrugs.

 

“I don’t see why not. He’s not my dog, anyway.”

 

The dog loves the pizza. He lets out a happy little whine and his tail (somehow) speeds up, his eye fixed on Bucky.

 

“Pizza Dog.” Clint says, handing him another slice. “That’s his new name.”

 

“You can’t call a dog _Pizza Dog_.” Bucky scoffs, patting the dog on his head as he eats Clint’s slice.

 

“Why not? He likes pizza, he’s a dog. Pizza Dog.”

 

“He needs a dog name. Like Lucky.” Bucky says, getting a piece of pizza for himself.

 

“Yeah, no. You only want to call him Lucky so he rhymes with you.” Clint accuses, kicking his foot into Bucky’s. “Besides, he’s not my dog.”

 

He’s totally Clint’s dog.

 

“Yeah? If he’s not your dog then you won’t mind if I adopt him? I’ve always liked dogs.” Bucky teases.

 

Clint stares at him for a solid five seconds before turning back to the TV.

 

“Fine.” He says. “He might sort of be my dog maybe. But I’m not calling him Lucky.”

  


* * *

  


**_Unknown Number:_ ** _Hey man, this is Sam. Thanks for meeting with Steve. I don’t know what happened but I’m guessing he said something stupid and regrets it because he hasn’t stopped sulking. Anyway, do you want your jacket back?_

 

The simple message shouldn’t set his heart rate off, but it does so Bucky denies his shaky hand uneven breathing as he reads the message.

 

Now that he’s had enough time to calm down he’s immensely embarrassed at his little freak out. He was joking with the damn asshole moments before but as soon as the sniper was mentioned he lost it.

 

So yeah, it’s not that Steve guy’s fault, but if it’s not Steve’s fault then it’s Bucky’s, so he’s going to blame it on Steve for a while longer, until he can at least admit he needs to do more about his damn PTSD.

 

He also wants his jacket, and there’s only one way to get it back.

 

He replies to Sam, sending his address but not bothering to mention Steve and their encounter.

  
  


There’s a knock on his door at 5pm on Tuesday night, just like they’d agreed, and Bucky answers it with a tired smile.

 

“Sam?” He asks, but the jacket in the man’s arms confirms that for him.

 

“Hey, Bucky. Here’s your jacket, sorry for the mix up.” Sam says, easy smile and relaxed shoulders. Deliberately relaxed, damn it. Bucky must look as exhausted as he feels.

 

“Not your fault.” Bucky shrugs, taking the jacket from Sam. “Thanks for dropping this back.”

 

Sam nods, his left thumb and index finger fiddling with the zipper of his hoodie. He wants to say something.

 

“Would you like to come in?” Bucky offers, hoping like hell Sam will turn him down.

 

“No thanks,” Sam answers immediately, hand falling back to his side. “I just- I don’t know what Steve did or said, but he really is sorry. He’s hotheaded and stubborn and will pick a fight with his own reflection. So when he feels like shit over something he means it. So yeah, I just wanted to pass along the apology.”

 

“It’s fine.” Bucky promises. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore, it was just a shitty day. It’s over now, it doesn’t matter. Bucky’s _moving on._  “Thanks for dropping this around.”

 

“Yeah, no worries.” Sam says, turning to leave. “See you around.”

 

* * *

  


It’s midnight on Friday when Bucky’s phone starts ringing obnoxiously loud. It wakes him up and he fumbles for a moment, debating leaving it but then deciding it could be important.

 

“Sam!” A voice shouts down the line before Bucky can even get a word out. Great. It’s Steve.

 

“You-” Bucky begins, but Steve cuts him off.

 

“Sam, buddy, pal, mate, my man, Bird-Man Sam. I am so drunk. You are so sober. I have a brilliant idea.” Steve says, voice slurring the words together. “You should pick me up so I don’t have to pay for a cab. They’re expensive as hell, man.”

 

“I’m not Sam.” Bucky tells him, closing his eyes and pretending he hasn’t woken up. It doesn’t work.

 

“I’m at Agency. I got Pegs and Angie into a cab but I also need to get home. Can you believe I forgot about that? Man, good one, right?” Steve won’t shut up and Bucky doesn’t actually care about him. He lets out a tired groan.

 

“Steve! You called the wrong number. This isn’t Sam, it’s Bucky.” He sighs, getting ready to hang up.

 

“Nah, man. Bucky hates me, he wouldn’t call me.” Steve dismisses, voice fading slightly as he presumably leans away from the phone for a moment.

 

“I didn’t call you, asshole, you called me.” Bucky mutters.

 

“Yes! To pick me up! Thanks, Sam, I’ll see you soon.”

 

And Steve hangs up.

 

And Bucky’s silently lying in the dark.

 

Shit.

 

“Sam, it’s Bucky. I got a drunk call from Steve and now he thinks you’re picking him up from a bar.” Bucky says as soon as Sam answers the phone.

 

“What the fuck.” Sam groans, but he doesn’t sound like Bucky, he doesn’t sound like he’s just been woken up.

 

“Sorry man. Not my fault you have asshole friends.” Bucky says, finding himself grinning despite it all.

 

“I can’t pick him up! I’m in DC!” Sam complains. Uh oh. “Bucky, listen. I know we don’t know each other and you and Steve got off on a bad foot, but please. Go find him. If he called needing a lift home then he definitely needs a lift home.”

 

“Sam, it’s midnight-”

 

“Bucky, please,” Sam begs. Bucky freezes and shuts his mouth. “He’s gonna start a fight over some insignificant thing and get his ass handed to him. He’s scrappy enough sober, but when he’s drunk he will stand up from a damn wall if he thinks you’re looking at it wrong. Please. Pick him up.”

 

“You owe me.” Bucky grumbles, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of his bed. “Steve owes me. The whole world owes me.”

  
  


It’s relatively busy when Bucky pulls up outside Agency, but then again, it is Friday night. (Saturday morning, technically.)

Bucky walks into the bar and takes a look around. That’s when it hits him that he doesn’t actually know what Steve looks like. He could be any of the people here and Bucky wouldn’t know. Shit.

 

Bucky pulls out his phone and dials Steve's number, eyes scanning the crowd while he waits. Steve doesn't pick up, but Bucky can see a phone on the bar counter light up. He heads over to it.

 

“Oh my God, you've only got one arm!” Someone says when Bucky reaches the counter. He tenses up and turns around to face the guy, because that's Steve's voice.

 

Steve's eyes are wide and he nudges the guy next to him.

 

“He only has one arm! This is the guy I accidently called a murderer, and he lost his arm! I am such an asshole.” Steve hisses between his teeth, hand repeatedly hitting the guy he's with. The guy scowls at him and brushes him off.

 

“Yeah, well, at least I'm not fucking tiny!” Bucky growls, looking Steve up and down with a leer. “How old are you? Twelve?”

 

“Oh, wow. Because I haven’t heard that one before.” Steve snaps back, an impressive level of sarcasm in his voice. He grabs his phone and shoves it in his pocket before shakily standing up and pushing off the counter. Except he’s wasted and starts to sway. Bucky reaches out to steady him, more out of reflex than concern.

 

“Go away, I can get by on my own.” Steve mutters, weakly swatting at Bucky.

 

“Sure, pal.” Bucky laughs, because he’s gotta be the only thing from keeping Steve face planting right now. “I think, maybe, it’s bed time.”

 

“Lucky for you, my ride’s on its way. So you can just leave me be, _Bucky_.” Steve puts an odd emphasis on Bucky’s name and it takes a moment for the full sentence to sink in.

 

“Why did you- Nevermind.” Bucky shakes his head, careful not to jostle the twig on his arm. “And I _am_ your ride, Captain Asshole.”

 

That catches Steve off guard and his eyes comically widen. “What do you mean, you’re my ride?”

 

“I mean you called me insisting that I pick you up. And your special buddy Sam isn’t even in New York so he couldn’t relieve me of this burden. Plus, he said you’d end up dead in an alley if I left you to it,” Bucky grumbles, herding Steve to the door.

 

“Dead in an alley,” Steve repeats in deadpan. He seems completely unaware he’s being moved through the crowd.

 

“Okay, maybe not those exact words. But he seemed to think you wouldn’t last five minutes on your own.” It’s cruel, the way he says it with a sneer, but Bucky’s tired and should really be asleep in his bed, not arguing with some little drunk punk.

 

“Fucking fight me,” Steve snarls. He twists his arm out of Bucky’s grip and crowds up into Bucky’s space. (He tries to, anyway. The guy is _tiny_.)

 

“God, you’re scrappy. Get in the car.” Bucky sighs, keeping his hands off Steve but motioning to his car.

 

“I’m not getting in a car with you! You might try to kill me!” Steve protests, folding his arms aggressively. Bucky didn’t even know that was possible.

 

“We’ve been over this whole murderer stint, pal. Get in the car or I _will_ leave you to sleep in the gutter.” Bucky opens Steve’s door for him and steps around to his side of the car. He must have done something right, because Steve silently climbs into the car and fumbles with his buckle.

 

Bucky watches him for a moment. It’s kinda cute, the way he can’t line it up straight.

 

“Here, let me.” Bucky offers when Steve becomes distracted with his watch strap.

 

“I can do it,” Steve insists. Bucky snorts but doesn’t bother replying because Steve isn’t actually resisting, just sitting back with a small frown on his face.

 

“You alright there, pal?” Bucky asks, straightening back up and twisting the key in the ignition. The car starts up with a calm rumble and Steve slowly looks at him.

 

“I keep fucking up,” Steve whispers. He’s looking at Bucky with those wide blue eyes as if he’s about to cry. Something uncomfortable settles in Bucky’s gut.

 

“What do you mean?” He asks, pulling out of the park before realising he doesn’t know how to get to Steve’s. He decides to just head to the library, they can work it out from there.

 

“I was a dick when I met you and I’m a dick to you now and I can’t stop being a dick,” Steve all but sobs. Bucky glances at him, trying to keep his eyes on the road but not wanting to leave Steve alone.

 

“Hey- hey, buddy, it’s okay. Let’s get you home, yeah?” Bucky says in his most soothing voice. It’s probably not that soothing, though, because Bucky sucks at being supportive. “Where do you live?”

 

Steve manages to stammer out his address between sobs, desperately wiping at his eyes.

 

They ride together in silence, Steve's breath evening out and Bucky's never making a sound. He's not mad anymore, and he's a little annoyed at himself by that. All Steve's done is insult him and woken him up in the middle of the night, but his heart's in the right place. Bucky can see that.

 

“We're here,” he says, a break in the silence as he pulls up outside the address Steve gave him. Bucky looks over at his passenger and swears under his breath. Steve’s asleep, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle against the window.

 

Bucky jostles his shoulder, calling his name but Steve just mumbles something without waking up.

 

“Steve,” Bucky hisses, “I am not carrying you inside. Wake up, you child.”

 

Steve doesn’t wake up. Bucky carries him inside.

 

It’s fucking hard with only one arm, but Bucky manages it. Steve’s tiny, hardly weighs a thing.

 

“It’s like holding a couple of grapes,” Bucky mutters to himself. It’s from some TV programme, but he can’t think of which one.

 

Luckily for Bucky, Steve overshares when he’s drunk, so he knows which apartment to go to. It’s on the fourth floor, but Steve’s got a lift in his complex. There’s no way Bucky’s carrying Steve up there, but he also doesn’t feel too keen on riding in the lift. His compromise: Put Steve in the lift, push the button, and meet him on the fourth floor.

 

Bucky didn’t count on anyone being awake; of course he didn’t, it’s after 1am. Plus, there’s another lift, surely they’d end up in that one, right?

 

Of course not.

 

Bucky gets to the fourth floor and pushes the button for the lift. Only, the lift he put Steve in is on the eighth floor, and the second lift is on the sixth floor. So the second lift comes and opens its doors to reveal a very empty box.

 

“Fuck,” Bucky groans. The little light-up numbers show that Steve’s lift is on the eighth floor, so Bucky takes the stairs. He doesn’t know why he thought it would work. When does it ever work? (When does it ever happen in the first place, though?) (Never. Ever.)

 

Bucky arrives to the eighth floor short of breath and way too tired for this shit. The floor’s deserted and the elevator lights show Steve’s on the ground floor. Bucky’s Fed Up. With the capital letters.

 

He goes back down the the fourth floor, taking his time, because who gives a fuck? He calls the lift to his floor. The wrong one comes, but he's given up, he doesn’t care. When it arrives Bucky sends it to the top floor. As it slowly makes its way up, Bucky calls the lift again. Since the wrong one is busy, Steve’s one makes its way to Bucky.

 

He lets out a cheer when it arrives, doors opening to reveal a semi-conscious, very-confused Steve sitting on the floor.

 

“What the fuck is going on?” He breathes, looking at Bucky with wide eyes and horror on his face.

 

“Who knows, pal. Who knows.” Bucky laughs, pulling Steve to his feet and leading him to his apartment. Steve’s awake enough to fish his keys out of his pocket and unlock the door.

  
  


“I owe you,” Steve says as Bucky tucks him into bed. Bucky sets the glass of water down on Steve’s nightstand and takes a step back, looking him in the eye.

 

“We’ll figure it out later. For now, I’m going home to my nice warm bed and not waking up before midday tomorrow.”

 

Steve smiles weakly at him, and Bucky tries not to think about it too much as he drives home in the quiet night.

 

* * *

  


Bucky absolutely does not leap for his phone when it buzzes on his nightstand the next day. That would be undignified.

 

His heart also doesn't drop when he sees it's from Clint, not Steve. Because Bucky doesn't want to hear from Steve. That makes literally no sense. The guy's just an ass Bucky's met twice and couldn't care less about.

 

Clint is his best friend. His best friend who has invited himself over with coffee in an hour's time. Bucky rolls out of bed.

  
  


“He's still not my dog,” Clint says as soon as Bucky opens the door. Pizza Dog is at Clint’s side.

 

“Of course not, pal,” Bucky laughs. “Guess what I did last night.”

 

“Got laid,” Clint answers immediately. He comes inside but doesn’t sit down, though, which is odd because Clint always goes straight for the couch.

 

“I’ve gotta keep moving, I just came to drop off coffee on my way to Nat’s studio.” Clint explains when Bucky gives him an odd look.

 

“You know me so well,” Bucky beams. “And no, I didn’t get laid last night. So maybe you don’t know me so well.”

 

Clint snorts and hands over a coffee. “Then what did you do?”

 

“I lost a drunk guy in an elevator,” Bucky shrugs. Clint rolls his eyes.

 

“Do I even wanna know?”

 

“Of course, but only when you’ve got enough time for the whole story.” Bucky says, opening the door again for Clint to leave. There’s someone there already, though. The IKEA delivery chick. Clint looks from the girl to the box she’s holding, then at Bucky and his empty left sleeve.

 

“Bro,” he says. “I really gotta go.”

 

“It’s alright, pop in on your way back with Nat, yeah?” Bucky suggests. There’s no way he’s gonna be able to build the table by himself, even if he did have two hands.

  
  
  


Bucky’s phone starts ringing ten minutes after Clint leaves. The Caller ID shows Steve’s name flashing on the screen.

 

“You’re alive,” Bucky greets.

 

“Ugh,” Steve groans. “Don’t remind me. I have the worst hangover.”

 

“Sucks to be you,” Bucky sing-songs. “But I’m glad you’re not still stuck in the lift.”

 

“God, so that wasn’t some weird-ass drunken dream?” Steve asks. “What the shit. I owe you a million.”

 

Bucky’s about to brush him off, say it’s all okay, but his eye catches on the IKEA box on his living room floor.

 

“I know how you can repay me…”

 

  


Steve looks like shit. He’s standing in Bucky’s doorway with a heavy scowl and hair in his eyes and Bucky just wants to sing.

 

“Thanks for lending me a _hand_.” He grins, waving Steve in. Steve just frowns harder.

 

“Was that- was that an arm pun?” He asks, squinting up at Bucky. It shouldn’t be so adorable but Bucky can’t help laughing.

 

“Aw, c’mon. I’m going out on a _limb_ here,” Bucky continues.

 

“Oh my God, I _will_ leave,” Steve groans, but he’s grinning too as he makes his way over the the IKEA box. “I assume this is it?”

 

“That’s it. Can’t you _hand_ le all these great jokes? Is it getting out of _hand_? Do you think-”

 

“I never _shoulder_ turned up.” Steve interrupts, looking up at Bucky from the box on the floor.

 

“Sucks to be you,” Bucky says. “I still have the shoulder.”

 

“Sucks to be you, I still have the whole entire arm.” Steve shoots back as he tears through the cardboard.

 

“Oh my God, you’re such an ass.” Bucky huffs, but he can’t stop smiling either.

 

“Like you didn’t know that already,” Steve mutters. He empties the contents of the box onto the floor and rummages through it to find the instructions. “Okay, you read these out and I’ll do all the taxing labour.”

 

“And so damn bossy!” Bucky adds, but takes the instructions from Steve and reads them out.

 

“First remove the A and B game panels and the F drawer. What.” Bucky reads, looking from the diagram to the pieces laid out in front of him.

 

“Okay, which one’s the A and B game panels and what’s the F drawer?” Steve asks, sitting back on his heels and looking at Bucky. Bucky shrugs.

 

“There are pictures, but they hardly make sense.”

 

“Go make coffee, do something useful. I’ll sort this out.” Steve orders, absorbed in the coffee table again. Bucky mutters to himself but does as he’s told. He’s _good_ like that.

 

“Go make coffee,” he says, voice all high pitched and mocking as he repeats Steve’s words back to him. “Do something useful.”

 

“I said _coffee_ ,” Steve calls after him, “not _whine_.”

 

“Very funny, Mister Funny-Man!” Bucky calls back, brewing up a pot. Steve doesn’t bother replying.

 

“Here is your coffee, your majesty.” Bucky says in his shittiest English accent, placing the pot on the little bookshelf by the tv. Steve glances up from the mess of wooden _game panels_ and _F drawers_. He looks severely unimpressed.

 

“Where are the mugs?” He asks.

 

“Well, so- _rry_ for not having two damn hands.” Bucky snaps, but he’s finding it a lot harder to be mad at Steve when the guy’s right in front of him making jokes and building coffee tables. He finds two clean mugs and brings them back to the floor.

 

“How’s this coming along?” He asks, filling the mugs up with his cheap plunger coffee.

 

“It’s not. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.” Steve admits, dropping the screws and legs and other bits of wood.

 

“You’re a twig and I’m an amputee. This will never work, I give up,” Bucky groans, flopping onto his back. Steve laughs and reaches for one of the mugs.

 

“Oh my God!” He gasps, choking down the mouthful of coffee he’s just taken. “This is awful, how do you drink it?”

 

“Acquired taste. My friend only ever brings coffee here now, won't drink any of this.” Bucky grumbles, reaching out blindly for his own mug.

 

“Wise friend.” Steve grins, leaning over Bucky to place the mug in his hand. The coffee’s still too hot for Bucky’s liking but the mug’s nice and warm so he just holds it in his palm, staying flat on his back.

 

“Speaking of wise friends,” Bucky says. “I met Sam. And he’s strong and fit and not small. So when you thought there was a possibility of me attacking him, why did you insist I meet you instead? Because if Sam had no shot against me, you sure as hell wouldn’t have one.”

 

“Better me than him.” Is all Steve says, not looking at Bucky.

 

“You’re shitting me, right? You couldn’t have, I don’t know, gone with him? If you were so worried about his safety?”

 

“I guess I didn’t think about it,” Steve says in a tone that Bucky probably shouldn’t argue with. He takes another sip of his coffee, wincing as it goes down.

 

“Damn straight. That was stupid. You gotta think about these things, Steve.” Bucky insists, reaching over to knock Steve. He feels silly like this, lying on the ground with Steve sitting next to him, both of them surrounded with parts of a coffee table.

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Steve groans, joining Bucky splayed out on the floor.

 

“Yes it does! Use your damn brain next time,” Bucky says. He wants to roll onto his side and prop himself up on his elbow so he can actually _look_ at Steve, but the punk is on the wrong side.

 

“Stop telling me what to do!” Steve exclaims, pushing himself up onto his elbow so he can hover over Bucky, and okay, that is totally not fair.

 

“No! You gotta look after yourself!” Bucky hisses. Steve’s close now, all of his attention focused on Bucky. It should make him uncomfortable, but Bucky finds himself wanting to smile at him.

 

“What are you thinking?” He asks, voice a hushed whisper because anything louder feels just plain wrong. Steve smiles at him, like there’s a secret shared between the two of them. The problem is that there isn’t. Or, if there is, nobody told Bucky.

 

“I want to kiss you.” Steve tells him, voice equally soft. And, oh, Bucky’s glad he’s in on the secret.

 

“Good idea.” He agrees, and suddenly Steve’s lips are on his. They’re warm and soft and Bucky’s a little bit surprised, as if Steve’s lips would be as chapped and hard as he is, a 90 pound jerk with icy sharp edges. But no, they’re sweet, and Steve’s sweet, and Bucky finds himself smiling into the kiss.

 

“The coffee’s gonna go cold.” He whispers, hardly daring to pull away from Steve. He doesn’t really care about the coffee, except Steve made him make it in the first place, and Bucky just can’t help being a little shit sometimes.

 

“Good,” Steve growls. “It’s shitty coffee anyway.”

 

“It’s not _that_ bad.” Bucky protests, trying to sit up. Steve pushes him back to the floor and straddles him.

 

“It is that bad. You want decent coffee? I’ll make you decent coffee.”

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Bucky scoffs, but Steve doesn’t reply, just leans back down to kiss him.

 

Of course, because things always go wonderfully for Bucky, that’s when someone knocks on the door.

 

“Ignore them.” Steve says, trailing kisses down Bucky’s neck.

 

“It’ll be my coffee friend and his scary girlfriend here to build my coffee table.” Bucky groans, running his hand through Steve’s hair. He doesn’t want him to stop, but he also knows he has to let Clint and Nat in.

 

“Fine.” Steve relents, pulling away and letting Bucky get up. “But we are not finished here.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Bucky promises, dropping one more kiss to Steve’s lips before going to get the door.

 

“We’re here to assemble your coffee table!” Clint announces. His dog scurries past him into Bucky’s flat. Nat’s eyes are fixed on Bucky’s neck. He flushes, guessing why.

 

“You have company,” she says with a smirk. Bucky doesn’t even consider denying it, just opens the door wider and turns around to Steve. Steve, who is impossible adorable on his own, but even cuter with his arms wrapped around Clint’s not-dog’s scruff.

 

“Hey, guys,” he says. “I’m Steve.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I love your comments and your prompts


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